The Man in the Mirror

To not post about Michael Jackson, his life, his death, his legacy would be foolish. The route I’m going to take with it might end up being foolish as well. But, to ignore what is eating at my mind in the aftermath of yesterday’s events feels just as foolish. So, I must risk it.

Everyone has their Michael Jackson stories. Their memories. The moments where his music became the soundtrack of their lives or at the least, the soundtrack of a momentous event in their lives. And, I have a few of my own, going clear back to the early 70′s, when I was a young girl in elementary school. Like most 6 year olds, I loved cartoons and one I truly loved was The Jackson 5ive cartoon. In looking back at it, it was campy and silly and…well, cartoony. The styles of the times were exaggerated, the music was bouncy and Michael, even in cartoon form was DREAMY! And…keep this part quiet now…he was black! And, I instantly stopped caring about skin color.

Like most of us in the 70′s, I followed his music with his brothers, choosing which was my favorite, dancing in my room with the door closed and the hairbrush up to my lips in dreams of one day taking the stage myself. Even more fun were the times that the chosen teen of the times would be over to babysit me and we’d stand at our kitchen window, a wide picture window that opened to the backyard and sing to the “audience” out in the yard. Sometimes we were Tony Orlando & Dawn (I was so good, I was all three voices of Dawn. At the same time!), sometimes we were Donnie and Marie, and sometimes, we were The Jacksons. They all had variety shows at the time and were to me what the Disney stars are to kids now. Only, you know, they had talent. [/snark]

Those afternoons at my kitchen window were, unbeknownst to me, building a love of performing, of singing, of disappearing in the music to a place where I didn’t have to clean my room, my Grandpa wasn’t dead (he was always in the audience, don’t you know) and my mom and dad weren’t going from together to separated to together every time the wind shifted directions. (They stopped at “together”, thank the heavens.) I learned that happiness was in the music. That unity was in the music. That fun and joy and pleasure and yes, even admiration from minions, was all in the music.

Michael broke from his brothers and I loyally followed, even though the stage at the kitchen window eventually went permanently black – I aged and found the idea of singing in front of a window a bit odd. The idea of a stage was still cool, though and I eventually found it in high school and young adulthood. In the mean time, I simply enjoyed Michael’s music. The way it made me want to move – who hasn’t tried the Moonwalk finding it’s only possible on a smooth surface with stocking feet? I enjoyed the way he commanded his craft. The way an entire room of gloomy teenagers would light up when his music filled a gymnasium at those dreaded school dances. We lit up, we moved, we danced, we flirted. We learned about love and crushes and kisses and that as girls, our heads could sometimes fit perfectly into the chests of men that we liked. Even…black ones for white girls!!! Scandalous! I wonder now, was my massive crush on Eddie a reflection of my crush on Michael Jackson? Eddie moved like Michael. His hair was big and expansive like Michael’s. He was kind and funny as I imagined Michael was in those days. I’ll probably never know, but I do know this. Because of Michael Jackson, Eddie wasn’t one of the few black kids in our school; he was just another boy. One who caught my eye and made my heart flutter. One whose chest was the perfect resting place for my head when slow dancing. I never cared that he was black.

Michael’s music continued to blow up all the way through high school and into college. I had committed my life to music and it was a thrill to have such a talent in the pop world be able to take me from the occasional monotony of classical music and opera. I never lost my love of pop music. Or, of Michael Jackson.

Sadly, Michael lost himself in the midst of it all. There is no question that the man ended up with serious mental issues. His reclusive nature went from eccentric to downright ill. It has been a sad, sad, scary and yes, disappointing sight to see all of these years. The dangling baby, the messed up plastic surgeries, the skin fading, the obsession with fantasy as his reality. And yes, the relationships with children. Was he ever inappropriate? I don’t know. I had my assumptions and I grieved the loss of the King of Pop even then. His few attempts to come back to the scene were never completely successful and it was obvious that the fame had killed his spirit and his sanity.

But, it never took away what he had been to me. To his fans. To the world. He was passionate in everything, even in error. He changed the music scene in a permanent way that few ever will. He’s my generation’s Elvis – who also didn’t go down with much dignity left. We kill our celebrities in our obsessions over them. It’s an embarrassing fact. Somewhere in our thrill of celebrity, we forget the human inside of it all.

Which, leads me to the risky part. I have been appalled at some of the responses to his death. I expect kids of my children’s generation to just not quite “get it”. They have only known the “crazy Michael”. He’s that oddball, weirdo dude who fondles children, has a removable nose and Mom and Dad swear was a legend of his time. What. EVER. But yet, that generation, while shilling out the occasional tasteless joke, has been amazingly respectful. My son has slipped some Michael Jackson onto his iPod to accompany his taste for Slipknot and Kamelot. Bless his eclectic nature.

My generation, however? The one in-between mine and my children’s? Not so respectful. And it has completely knocked me on my ass. I want to be beautiful with words and perfect in my chastisement, but the only thing I can say with any great authority is, “You should be ashamed of yourselves!” Just because he has obvious mental illness, he is not worthy of due respect as a human being? One high school acquaintance of mine, a doctor, was particularly rude when enlightening us of MJ’s child molestation charges, and ended his post with a snarky “good riddance.” A doctor. Someone who has taken an oath to do no harm. Even more sick-making were the chimes of others, some I knew from high school, some I didn’t, who agreed with him.

They had not one lick of compassion. Parents lost a child. Children lost a father. Siblings lost a brother. The world lost a great, unmatchable talent. A human being died, a human being who touched the entire world with his music and the best we can do is say, “Yeah, he sure DID touch them. Henh. Henh.”

It was everywhere, as were the beautiful words of tribute. Friends and bloggers who I have come to respect lost some of that respect from me last night. Again, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Allow people to mourn. Is it the death of THEIR father, son, brother, friend? Of course not. But loss is loss and no one ever wants to lose those things from our childhood that made it a more pleasant, joyful, wonderful place to be.

In another vein, Farah Fawcett was our Marilyn Monroe. Her fight was courageous. Her loss is also huge. Will MJ’s death overshadow hers? It’s possible. It’s just bad timing – no one timed it all so Farrah would get brushed under the rug. We lost two icons in one day. It’s a sad, sad day. Need we qualify the losses? Need we chastise people’s sadness? Need we belittle the memories that made some of us who we are today?

We have plenty of time to joke about the fallacies of our fallen, and we will. It’s part of healing, too. The time will come.

For now though, be the man in the mirror that has made a statement of love and compassion and human kindness.